


So tie me to the mast of this old ship and point me home

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the truth: Clarke is not stupid, or naïve, she knew they wouldn’t all make it. She was ready to die, knew that some of her friends might die; this is war and people die and blood is on her hands, a permanent stain on her soul. But Bellamy…good God, she’d do anything to keep him safe. What she once told him is still true, will always be true – she needs him. He’s hers and she’s his, that’s just the way things are meant to be.</p>
<p>She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to live in a world where this is not true anymore.</p>
<p>(Speculative fic for the battle of Mount-Weather, canon-divergent)</p>
            </blockquote>





	So tie me to the mast of this old ship and point me home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and first posted this story over on ffnet before Bodyguard of Lies happened. It's now canon-divergent, but it kind of always were anyway. Be aware of mentions of psychological and physical torture.
> 
> Title from Josh Garrels' Ulysses.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Day 44**

He’s sitting at her bedside when she wakes, and for a brief moment, his gaze is warm and soft like it used to be, and Clarke can’t help letting herself hope that maybe _this is it_ , maybe he’s finally back.

But when he speaks his voice is rough, partly from going days without talking at all, and _mostly_ because of _her_ , Clarke knows it. “You can’t go on like this,” he says, scolding her as if she were a child but with none of the fondness he usually directs at her. He’s angry, that much is clear; tension is radiating off of him, so very obvious in the strong set of his jaw and his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he sits there like it’s the last thing he wants to do and yet forces himself to. But when she slowly sits up, arms instinctively wrapping around her knees to shield her from the emotional punch she feels coming, Clarke catches a little glimpse of the old Bellamy in the way his mask slips for just a second. He lets out a low, breathy sigh and it’s softer than exasperated or angry, like maybe – _just maybe_ – _hating_ her doesn’t come as easily as it looks.

Clarke doesn’t allow herself to linger on that thought, though, because Bellamy has every right to hate her – and he _should_ hate her – but his eyes are just hollow as he stares at her, waiting for an answer Clarke can’t give him because she just doesn’t know what to say anymore. _If_ there’s anything left to say; something that matters, something that can erase all the pain and hurt he’s been through because of her. But there’s _not_ and words and sobs are catching in her throat so she looks down at her lap and bites on her lip to keep the tears from falling. She _won’t_ cry in front of him; it wouldn’t be fair because this is _not_ about her. Bellamy’s the one who went through hell and if Clarke could she would go back in time and change everything but she _can’t_ ; it will haunt her forever and she accepts it, almost _embraces_ the pain because it’s the only thing she can think of to try and atone for her sins. Every man who’s ever loved her died but what happened to Bellamy is _so much worse_ , because he’ll have to live bearing the scars of what it costs to care about her, and all Clarke wants to do is beg him to forgive her while knowing deep down she doesn’t _deserve_ it.

She hears him sigh again and she feels it in her very soul, how it sends shivers running through her body. “Clarke,” he says her name quietly, and it’s both an order and a plea so she forces herself to lift her face up and meet his gaze. Bellamy looks unsure, torn even, as though he wants to say something but fears it’s a bad idea and it _kills_ her. They’ve always been so in sync, seamlessly understanding each other, relying on each other, and now she doesn’t know where they stand.

It feels like all they keep doing is falling apart.

Bellamy unfolds his arms, resting them on his lap where his fingers tangle together, and Clarke mirrors him; they can’t begin to heal together if they act like they’re enemies, wary, terrified of each other and what they’ve become – the very idea makes her _sick_. Bellamy is the part of her she can’t function without, and Clarke knows, deep down, that she’s the same to him, _no matter what_. If anything, the past weeks have proven that without each other they’re just shadows, empty shells of who they used to be, strong and brave as they stood side by side against the world.

She wants that back, her faith, her strength, her hope. She wants _them_ back.

She _needs_ him back.

“You look like a ghost,” Bellamy says after a moment, and though his voice is still a little rough, it has softened, too. And that’s when Clarke sees that there’s something else behind his anger, something she never thought he could feel again for her: _concern_. Bellamy’s angry _because_ he’s worried for her. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.

Clarke’s eyes widen before she averts her gaze. “I’m not doing anything,” she murmurs.

Bellamy scoffs. “ _That’s_ the problem,” he says. “You don’t eat and you don’t sleep, and you know nobody will come out and tell you anything because they’re too afraid to upset you. I know because that’s what everybody does with _me_.” He pauses then, letting his words and their truth sink in. “I know O’s aching to tell me to stop being an idiot and come talk to you, but she _hasn’t_ , and you know Octavia’s never been afraid of saying what she means,” he adds with a light chuckle, and that’s what makes Clarke lift her face up again because when’s the last time she heard him laugh or saw him smile?

She wants to tell him that he’s _not_ an idiot, that he has every right to avoid her for the rest of his life if he wants to, but she _can’t_. Bellamy’s trying so hard and she can’t even say a damn word because Clarke knows that if she opens her mouth the tears will start and she won’t be able to hold them back. So she just nods her head at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she knows it’s _not enough_ , that she needs to say something, to _do_ something, but there’s a reason why they’ve been stuck in this limbo for weeks. For the first time, Clarke doesn’t have a plan.

Silence lingers and when Bellamy finally stands to leave, she can’t blame him.

But then Bellamy doesn’t turn and walk away; he sits beside her on the bed instead, too close and too far at the same time as she aches to hold his hand, feel his fingers wrapped around hers in the silent vow they’ve made to each other: _it’s always been just you and me, and it’ll always be_. Is it still true? _Can_ it still be true, after everything that happened?

Leaning his head against the wall, Bellamy tilts his face to her, and upon close inspection he looks just as tired as she does, his skin paler than usual and deep bags under his eyes that show she’s not the only one who can’t sleep at night. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Clarke wants to protest but one of his fingers is brushing her lips before she can open her mouth, silencing her. It _burns_ , but in a good way, after going so long without his touch – she hadn’t realized until then how starved she was for his proximity and his comforting warmth. “Please, let me explain,” he begs softly, so she gives him a nod and his finger drops, but not before Bellamy absently lets it slide along the curve of her mouth. “I know things have been hard for you, _too_. And I _know_ you, when something is wrong you keep everyone away – just like _I_ do. Just like I used to before you,” Bellamy adds, his voice nothing but a breathy whisper. “Explains why we’re _both_ feeling terrible even though everybody’s trying to help.”

_Two sides of the same coin_ , she remembers hearing Kane say about them. Everybody’s tried to help but the only person they needed was each other, and _that’s_ the tragedy, knowing it but not doing anything about it, simply going through the motions day after day, waiting and wishing and hoping for something Clarke wasn’t brave enough to do.

Talk to him.

Face him and face the reality.

She swallows hard, feeling her chest clench and tighten. She’s feeling sick, _heartsick_ , because Bellamy’s both the poison and its remedy, and isn’t it exactly what he’s trying to say here? That they hurt each other but can’t live without each other? Clarke doesn’t want to hurt him – _never again_. “I deserve to feel terrible,” she murmurs.

“Bullshit,” Bellamy says, and his voice is so soft now that Clarke wishes she could just let herself be lulled by it, and believe him. But she _can’t_ , because no matter what Bellamy says, what happened to him was _her_ fault and maybe he can forgive her someday but she _never_ will forgive herself. “There’s something I need to say,” he goes on, “and it’s not easy but I _need_ you to know I’m not saying it to hurt you, okay?” he insists in a pleading tone.

“I _know_ ,” Clarke replies in a low murmur, her voice firm in spite of how small and scared she feels. Whatever Bellamy’s about to say – she knows she deserves it, that she needs to take it. _But_ she also knows Bellamy would never do anything to hurt her, not on purpose. “I’m ready.” She regrets saying that as soon as the words come out of her mouth; so grave, so formal, like Bellamy came to her to talk about one of the kids doing something stupid that requires her to go all Mom on them. But Bellamy keeps surprising her as he laughs, a tiny, amused sound that she’s missed so, _so much_.

His features grow serious again after a moment, and this time he’s the one averting his gaze as he focuses his eyes on her chin, her shoulder, her knee – anywhere but her own. “After everything that happened,” he starts, and Clarke feels her chest tighten again, her heart colliding painfully against her ribcage because this is the first time they’re talking about it together – their first real conversation in _weeks_. “I just…I just didn’t know how to deal with it. And it took me a lot of time to figure some things out, like…”

Bellamy seems to hesitate, his tongue darting between chapped lips in that tiny nervous tell she’s seen before, and this time when Clarke feels the urge to reach out to him she doesn’t suppress it. Tentatively, she brushes her fingers against his, just a small, gentle touch to encourage him to go on and Bellamy looks up at her, confusion flashing in his deep brown eyes. “Sorry,” she apologizes.

Clarke tries to pull her hand away, but Bellamy’s faster than her and grabs it before she does, and his gaze drops to their joined hands as he seems to study them, pondering the delicate weight between right and wrong, familiar and foreign. Her hand looks so small wrapped in his much bigger one, but they both have thick skin, calloused and scarred and so, _so warm_ as Bellamy twines their fingers together.

But as much as she would love to just sit there and hold his hand and forget about everything, Clarke knows they can’t. They have so much they need to talk about, and she owes it to Bellamy to listen to him even if it hurts. “You were talking about things you needed to figure out,” she gently probes, tilting her head to meet his eyes again. “What things?” she asks.

“You and me,” Bellamy replies. “And how much of this was really about you and me and how much was about _them_ ,” he explains, his gaze darkening just at the mention of the people in Mount Weather. “About what they put in my head. I needed time to figure out what they put in it and what was _already_ there.”

_That’s_ what _breaks_ Clarke; the idea that Bellamy could really believe that she didn’t care about him, that she can’t blame that on anyone but _herself_ for not showing how much he meant to her before it was too late. It’s so much easier to corrupt someone’s mind if the smallest seed of an idea is already there, and _she’s_ the one who planted it when she sent him away; when she told him she couldn’t lose him, only to change her mind hours later and tell him that risking his life was worth it.

Clarke feels the tears pool in her eyes – regret and shame are old friends now – and she quickly lowers her head to hide them. “And do you still need time?” she asks, and Clarke hates herself for the way her voice trembles at the end as she chokes on unshed tears.

“No,” Bellamy just says, and pauses again, looking for his words. Clarke focuses on their tangled fingers, enjoying the warmth and the comfort while they last. “When I saw you fall to the ground earlier…” he starts again, “I was _scared_ , _but_ I ran to you anyway.”

That she didn’t know. One moment she’d been arguing with her mother and the next she’d felt dizzy and her vision had gone blurry; next thing she knew, she was waking up in med bay, Bellamy sitting at her bedside. “You did?” Clarke hears herself ask, and there’s too much hope and something silly like joy in her voice but she can’t help it.

“Yeah,” Bellamy replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world even though they both know it’s not, _not anymore_. Everything they had, everything they were – it’s all a blur now, and it’s going to be a long, hellish road to get back there. But here he is, taking the first, hardest step. “I didn’t think,” he goes on, “I just _did_ , and that’s when I realized – when I _knew_ that…no matter what happens, no matter what could _ever_ happen, this is right. _This_ feels right,” he adds as he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “And I need you to know that.”

When the first tear falls, there’s nothing Clarke can do to stop it. It drops on their joined hands and the next moment Bellamy is pulling her into him, one arm wrapping around her back as his other hand tangles in her blonde waves, and she’s crying in earnest now, her face pressed against his chest. He’s warm and he’s alive and he’s _home_ , and God, how she’s felt homesick for the past weeks.

How long they stay there, wrapped up in each other, Bellamy whispering soothing things in her ear and his hand rubbing over her back, Clarke doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter. _Nothing else matters_.

His hand finds her face and Bellamy tilts her chin up so she looks at him. “You need to stop blaming yourself, okay?” he says, and there’s a finality in his words that makes Clarke nod instead of protesting. “No more starving yourself and walking on shaky legs. You need to sleep and eat properly, and you need to stop making yourself pay for something that you didn’t do.”

The admission falls off her lips before she can try to hold it. “I can’t sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, I see…” She doesn’t need to say it, Bellamy knows – his nightmares must be so much worse than hers. “I just can’t.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t tell her that he’s alive and that she no longer has a reason to be so afraid, that she’s not doing anyone any good by punishing herself. Instead he just pulls her with him as he lies down and offers her his arm as a pillow and settles behind her at her back, one strong arm wrapping around her waist. It feels so familiar, so _natural_ to do this with him even though they’ve never been this close before, never shared more than one hug in the spur of the moment and a few comforting touches, that Clarke doesn’t question it. She just turns in his embrace, facing him as she buries her face in his neck, her own hand snaking at his back as her fingers curl around his shirt, pressing herself closer as if she were afraid Bellamy would disappear.

The truth is, she _is_.

Bellamy’s silent for a long time, so much that Clarke believes he’s fallen asleep, but then he speaks again, his words a little muffled in the crown of her hair. “You forgave me when I believed I didn’t deserve it,” he murmurs, and she instinctively tightens her hold on him, “now it’s my turn. I forgive you, Clarke, so you need to let it go now.”

“It’s not that easy,” she sniffles against his neck.

Bellamy chuckles. She feels it in his throat as she nuzzles there, and against her ear as he lowers his face to whisper, “Nothing ever is, Princess,” he says simply. “Now, sleep.”

She does.

They both do.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 9**

She doesn’t dare hold his hand or brush his hair away from his face; it already feels like a violation of his privacy and consent, just sitting there while he’s sleeping, but Clarke can’t force herself to stay away. She focuses on his chest, how it heaves and rises and falls, slow and steady, peaceful and soothing; on the calm look on his face, such a stark contrast with the fear and distress he displays during the day – and for that she’s grateful, that the tea Nyko made for him allows Bellamy to get some dreamless sleep.

Clarke’s so busy staring at him like he’s her own personal miracle – _he’s alive_ , she keeps repeating to herself in her head a dozen times a day – that she doesn’t hear the footsteps coming closer, not until somebody speaks her name softly. Clarke startles, surprised to find somebody else here so late – except for Octavia who’s asleep curled up in another chair, and who hardly ever leaves her brother’s side – but it’s only Jackson, and Jackson never looks at her like she’s a broken little thing and she’s so thankful for him.

“I know I shouldn’t be in here,” she starts as she stands to leave, but Jackson’s hand lands on her shoulder, gently pushing her back into her seat.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and that’s another thing she appreciates about her mother’s assistant: he’s just so kind, and unlike everybody else he’s not smoldering her, waiting for her to fall apart – he’s just nice because that’s who he is. “If it was the other way around, I bet Bellamy wouldn’t let anything or anyone keep him away from you.”

It’s a sweet thing to say, even if Jackson doesn’t know the first thing about Bellamy and her – nothing real and deep, just what’s on the surface – so Clarke fakes a small smile that Jackson returns without calling her out on it. They’re ignoring the giant elephant in the room and Clarke’s okay with that because she’s exhausted and on the verge of a mental breakdown so she’ll allow herself to sit at Bellamy’s side for just a little longer without thinking of how _terrified_ he would be if he happened to wake up and see her.

She still can’t process it. For someone to make Bellamy think – no, truly _believe_ – that _she’s_ the enemy…no one could do that.

_Except they did_.

“Do you remember your first day at the hospital?” Jackson asks all of a sudden, and Clarke recognizes it for what it is: a very much needed distraction, and she wonders how it is that Jackson gets what she needs right now more than her mother or any of her friends do.

Clarke tries to think about it as she watches Jackson check on Bellamy’s vitals, his pulse and heartbeat strong despite how critical his state was when they’d found him. She’d been thirteen or fourteen when her mother had first let her help out in the Ark’s medical bay; she’s seen so many bleeding, fatal wounds and broken bones since then, it’s hard to remember a time when patients weren’t dying because of a spear through their chest. “Not really,” Clarke shrugs.

“A little girl threw up on your shoes and you didn’t even startle. You just held her hair and rubbed her back until she felt better,” Jackson says, a small smile tugging at his lips like it’s a fond memory of his. “You drew her something to make her smile,” he adds, a little frown creasing his brow as he asks, “A flower?”

Clarke shakes her head absently. It wasn’t a flower, but she can’t seem to recall what it was; she does remember the little girl now, though. Clarke wonders where she is now. Probably just another lifeless body in the wreckage of one of the Ark stations that everybody will soon forget because life goes on, it always does, in spite of the shadows that settle on the place that people left.

She’s seen the darkest sights but looking at Bellamy now, alive but _not_ well, pale and weak and damaged, Clarke doesn’t know how she’s supposed to keep searching the fading light.

This is not something she can fix with a soothing hand or a silly drawing.

She just _can’t_ fix it. But, oh God, how she wishes she could.

(There’s a shortage of shooting stars that she still doesn’t know if they’re the kind you can wish upon when wherever you go, blood and death follow.)

She fixes her eyes on Bellamy, feeling stupid for praying like a lost little girl. He’s alive and he’s here, and it’s all she can really ask for. Soon Jackson is done tending to him and Clarke feels an ache in her chest upon not being the one taking care of Bellamy; it just feels so _wrong_ to sit by and watch as someone else holds his life in their hands. His hands can kill and hers can heal, and Clarke’s seen the evidence of the contrary, too; it’s a fragile balance sometimes, how easily she could slit someone’s throat if it meant protecting one of her friends or how those big hands of his can soothe and comfort when she feels the darkness coming, but she wouldn’t trust her life in anyone’s hands as much as she trusts _his_.

It kills her that _he_ wouldn’t anymore.

“He should be out for another hour,” Jackson says softly, his tone filled with sympathy and understanding as he turns to leave.

He doesn’t tell her to go back to her tent and get some rest like her mother would, or that everything is going to be okay because this is _Bellamy_ and Bellamy is a _fighter_ – Jasper and Miller are so adamant about it, their faith in the boy turned into man and soldier they look up to _unwavering_ , Clarke had held tears back until she was alone and then let them all out because she just couldn’t bring herself to hold on hope the way they did.

Bellamy _is_ a fighter; she’s not sure how long _she_ can keep fighting.

She murmurs quiet words of gratitude to Jackson as he exits the med bay, and then Clarke focuses her attention on Bellamy again – if she only has one hour left with him, she will make it count. She memorizes every freckle on his face; thanks deities she’s not sure she believes or _should_ even believe in between his every slow exhale, prays that the song of his heart never ends between each strong beat. Her hour is almost up when she can’t resist it anymore and gets up to sit on the edge of his bed; she delicately rests her hand on top of his, just the softest, barely there touch as her thumb rubs gently against his pulse. “This is _not_ how the story ends,” she says, her voice nothing but a low whisper, afraid that she’ll wake him up. “I let you go – I _sent_ you away – and in turn you were supposed to save our friends and come back to me. _This_? This is not…”

Clarke pauses, swallowing hard as the words get stuck in her throat and she chokes on them, sobs trying to escape her mouth, but she firmly presses her lips together to hold them back. This is not the way she’d imagined this conversation going. She’d let herself fantasize about their reunion once in a brief moment of weakness, longing for the feel of his arms around her and clinging to him like the last breath she would breathe, and she’d let herself believe that if they both held up their end of the deal – Bellamy saving their people, and Clarke making sure the alliance would not break – then maybe all of this would be okay in the end, all the pain and sacrifices they’ve had to make. But looking at Bellamy now, _at them_ , Clarke can’t help thinking that being the noble, brave leaders, _wasn’t_ worth it.

_How could anything be worth losing Bellamy?_

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” she finally confesses, voicing out the one thing she will _never_ forgive herself for. She may not have _forced_ Bellamy to go – he _wanted_ to go, was always willing to risk it _all_ for their friends because that’s who he _is_ – but she also knew he would do anything she asked, even if it meant going off on a suicide mission. She should’ve thought of a better plan, should’ve known that Lincoln was still too weak, that the risks were too high…

It’s her job to _think_ , and she _failed_ him.

She lets out a low, breathy sigh, feeling tears prick at her eyes that Clarke doesn’t feel strong enough to fight at the moment. She feels ridiculous all of a sudden, on the verge of crying as she pours her heart out to an unconscious Bellamy, but it’s the only way she can see or talk to him – even just be in the same room as him – these days.

“I’m sorry, okay?” she goes on when she finds her voice again, but it’s small and rough and broken, her heart clenching painfully in her chest as the apology leaves her mouth. “I know you don’t remember us, I know you think I’m a monster, but I truly _am_ sorry. _”_

There are a dozen other things she wishes she could tell him – that she’ll never take him for granted again, that he means a lot to her and not just because they make a great team, that if she could she would take it all back just to keep him safe – but Bellamy starts stirring, his fingers instinctively closing around hers, and _God_ , how Clarke wants to let herself enjoy it for just a second.

But she can’t.

Slowly, Clarke pulls her hand away and stands, forcing herself to walk away.

(She never sees the lone tear on Octavia’s cheek.)

 

* * *

 

**Day 1**

“I found him!” Octavia screams as she rushes to her brother’s limp form, frantic hands pulling him up and searching his body for injuries before they settle at his cheeks, cradling his face. “Bell, come on, open your eyes!” she yells at him, hot tears burning at her own as Bellamy remains unconscious. “Don’t you dare do this to me!” Bellamy doesn’t stir in spite of her shrieks, and Octavia’s fingers are shaking as she drags them to his neck, feeling for a pulse she _doesn’t_ find. “No, no, no,” she murmurs as she presses her ear to his chest instead, hearing nothing over the fast, impossibly loud beat of her own heart.

“Octavia!” she hears someone call out to her, and seconds later Kane is rushing in the small room, his eyes darting around to the monitors and screens and metal shackles tied to the elder Blake’s wrists. “What is – wait, is he –“

She shakes her head, her voice catching in her throat as she croaks her answer. “I – I don’t know.”

Kane’s kneeling at her side immediately, his fingers replacing hers at Bellamy’s wrist. “It’s low, but there’s a pulse, Octavia,” he reassures her. “We need to get him out of here and find Clarke.” Looking around for something they could use to open the cuffs, he reaches for her face first, cupping her jaw with his hand with a tenderness that both surprises and moves Octavia. “Keep talking to him. We need him to wake up.”

She nods weakly, focusing her attention on her brother again. “You hear that, Bell?” she asks, her fingers carding through his hair, gently brushing his dark curls off his forehead. Octavia can’t help but gasp as she spots bruises there, and she cringes. “You just need to open your eyes and everything will be okay. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, not again,” she promises. “Just open your eyes and Clarke will be here soon, okay?” Octavia can’t deny she expected him to open his eyes just at the mention of Clarke’s name, but Bellamy doesn’t. His head falls heavily against the crook of her neck as she wraps herself around him and rubs her hands down his back to bring some warmth to his cold body. “He’s not waking up,” she calls out to the former Chancellor. “What do I do?” she asks pleadingly.

Kane momentarily abandons his search for a tool and turns back to the Blake siblings, his heart aching at the sight of Octavia, warrior princess looking so small in that instant, tears pooling in her wide, lost eyes. Sinking to his knees beside her, he pats Bellamy’s cheek, lightly at first and then harder, until the pat turns into a slap. “Come on, son,” he all but groans as he keeps trying to rouse Bellamy awake. “Don’t do this. You’ve got too much to lose.”

One slap turns into two, three, six, and Octavia’s openly crying when Bellamy finally stirs, slowly opening one eye with obvious difficulty. His mouth twitches in discomfort, his Adam’s apple bobbing fast as he chokes on his breath, and her hands are on his face again, trying to help him calm down by getting into his focus. “Bell,” Octavia whispers, giving him a watery smile. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“O,” Bellamy manages to croak, his eyelids already dropping close again.

“Hey, hey, you gotta stay up,” Octavia shakes him, her thumbs gently soothing the bags beneath his eyes. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Bell, but you need to stay conscious until we find Clarke.”

Bellamy’s eyes open suddenly, wide with _terror_. “No,” he shakes his head, and it’s obvious it’s asking him all the energy he has left to do so, and he flinches away from her. “No, not – _not Clarke_ ,” he says, her name torn on his lips.

“Clarke’s fine, Bell,” Octavia tries to reassure him, but it only seems to aggravate him even more. “She’ll be here soon and she’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

Bellamy shakes his head again. “I – I don’t…no,” he starts, sounding confused and scared and a little angry. “Not Clarke. Don’t – don’t let her…”

Octavia turns her gaze to Kane, just as confused as her brother seems to be. “He’s just disoriented,” Kane offers, giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Nothing seeing Clarke won’t fix.”

(God forgive him for being so _wrong_.)

 

* * *

**Day 4**

This is a _nightmare_.

Her mother and Jackson have been working for days, putting everything that they are in Bellamy’s recovery while she took care of the wounded with Nyko, but Clarke feels too numb to say or feel anything but a dull ache in her heart, her eyes still damp from the desperate words that had left his mouth upon seeing her.

_Don’t touch me._

_Don’t let her hurt me, O._

_Make her go away._

_Please._

Clarke gives her mother a short nod because she doesn’t trust her voice; she can’t have the others hearing the crack in it, how she feels like she’s choking on words she can’t let out, raw and agonizing. There’s an apology in Abby’s tone as she starts speaking that tugs at Clarke’s heartstrings. “This is nothing we’ve ever dealt with before. At first we thought that Bellamy was just unstable and disoriented because of what he went through,” Abby says, and Clarke is grateful that she doesn’t elaborate about the bruises and cuts and the fragile state Bellamy was in when Octavia and Kane found him, barely breathing. “But it’s been days now and there is no sign of improvement. He’s still bewildered and fearful, and it seems like Clarke is…”

A hand finds her shoulder – Octavia’s, Harper’s, she doesn’t know – and Clarke allows herself to accept the comfort, even if for just a short while. The only reason why she hasn’t taken to the woods to scream until the echo of who she used to be deafens her is _them_ , her friends, her people, who give her the strength she so desperately needs to make it through. She can’t deny she’s terrified they’ll eventually change their minds and realize that this is her entire fault, that the faith and forgiveness they put so generously in her are misplaced; but then again, Clarke also knows that they’re the best hope mankind has. She’s seen their kindness and their strength and maybe the darkness surrounding them has a name but the light they shine does, too, and it’s _theirs_.

Her mother pauses and the hand at her shoulder squeezes, and Clarke feels nauseous. “Like _I’m_ the major trigger?” Clarke says it for her, feeling the bitter taste of the harsh truth on her tongue.

“This is bullshit,” Miller cuts in, earning nods of agreement from the others. “Bellamy cares too much about Clarke to just _forget_ it,” he says with a determination in his voice that reminds her of why Bellamy always trusted and relied on him. Miller – _Nathan_ , God, maybe it’s time she starts calling him by his first name – has always been loyal and strong, and his unwavering faith in spite of everything that happened means a lot more than Clarke could ever express.

_It’s not that simple_ , her mother tries to explain, but Monty interrupts her. “Then _make_ it simple,” he demands, and there’s an edge to his voice that didn’t used to be there but things have changed, haven’t they? “Bellamy risked his life for all of us. He’s our friend. We’re not gonna stand there and watch him lose his mind. Tell us what we can do.”

Clarke cringes at his words. _Losing his mind_ ; is this what’s happening to Bellamy? Is it the price to pay for being so loyal to her, when it feels like all she does is letting her people down over and over again?

( _I am become death, the destroyer of worlds_ , and hearts and souls and minds and lives and Bellamy.)

Abby meets her eyes, looking like she doesn’t dare say another word because there is no simple, easy way to say this. This is the truth: Bellamy is terrified of her – the simple mention of Clarke’s name in front of him is enough to trigger a panic attack – and this is her worst nightmare coming true, losing her partner, her friend, her Bellamy.

_This_ is the truth: Clarke is not stupid, or naïve, she knew they wouldn’t all make it. She was ready to die, knew that some of her friends might die; this is war and people die and blood is on her hands, a permanent stain on her soul. But _Bellamy_ …good God, she’d do anything to keep him safe. What she once told him is still true, will _always_ be true – she _needs_ him. He’s hers and she’s his, that’s just the way things are meant to be.

She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to live in a world where this is not true anymore.

Jackson takes his turn explaining and when he speaks his voice is calm and quiet, and though it’s not enough to ease the tension radiating off the delinquents, Clarke can feel they’re all more inclined to listen to him – she’s not the only one with a strained relation with Chancellor Abigail Griffin, or anyone from the council who voted to send them to the heaven turned hell. “We don’t think that Bellamy has forgotten about Clarke, but that he was _made_ to see her like she’s a threat,” Jackson explains, but it still doesn’t make sense; Clarke doesn’t think it ever could.

“ _How_?” Jasper asks, and Clarke’s afraid of the answer to that question because it’s one thing to see the bruises on Bellamy and another to imagine how they got there, and why. “Bellamy would _never_ believe that.”

Jackson bites on his bottom lip nervously, visibly torn about going on with his explanation, and Clarke surprises herself when she pleads him to _just say it_. The hand at her shoulder slips down her arm, and she recognizes Octavia’s calloused fingers as they twine with hers, the younger Blake giving her comfort as much as she’s seeking it. “This is just a theory,” Jackson finally says cautiously, “but we think that they used an old form of torture that our ancestors used in times of war, when interrogating and torturing people for information failed…Some people were just so hard to break they had to find another way, and they realized that they could use their prisoners differently, turn them into something else, a weapon they could use against their enemies.”

“Is this what they did to Bellamy?” Miller asks, confusion and anger flickering in his eyes. “Torture him until he’d break down and try to kill us? Until he’d forget we’re his friends?”

_Not us, just me_ , Clarke can’t help but think, and she can feel that the dam inside her is about to break when Jackson doesn’t immediately deny it. She turns to Abby, pleading eyes seeking reassurance she knows she won’t find; Clarke’s just a kid but she’s old enough to know her mother doesn’t have all the answers, that she can’t fix everything – and Clarke’s tried so hard to save everybody only to learn the hard way that she can’t either. “Brainwashing takes a long time,” Abby replies for Jackson. “To unmake someone so completely, you need to truly tear them apart, pull them out and fill them with somebody’s else thoughts and values and ideas until they believe they’re theirs. Once an idea has taken hold of the brain it’s almost impossible to make it go away, especially if you fight it.” She pauses at everybody’s bewildered expression, lifting a hand to rub at the crease between her brows. “Bellamy would never betray any of you _on purpose_ ,” she goes on, “but just imagine that someone would keep telling him that he must –“

“Then he’d fight it,” Monty says, “but the idea would be in his mind somewhere, right? It would stay somewhere and root there?”

Abby nods. “It’s just as if I told you _not_ to think about something. The _first_ thing you’re gonna do? Think about it. The idea won’t be yours, and under normal circumstances you should be able to perceive it, that you didn’t come up with it, but not if it’s been imposed with repeated violence and abuse. But like I said, brainwashing takes a long time, and luckily they only had Bellamy for about a week.”

Clarke feels Octavia’s fingers tightening around hers and she reciprocates the gesture, anchoring herself to the other girl. She knows her mother didn’t mean any harm but for a councilwoman, she can have a terrible word choice; how does _luck_ have anything to do with Bellamy being tortured?

“They didn’t have enough time to turn him completely and make him believe that we were the enemy,” Jackson goes on explaining, “because that doesn’t only require time but also a deep, intimate knowledge of the person to do that. But they knew enough to know _where_ to strike, and so this is why we think that they targeted Bellamy’s feelings towards Clarke, trying to find a breach in his loyalty to the person they identified as our leader, and by extension they targeted you,” he adds softly as he meets Clarke’s gaze. “My guess is that when they realized Bellamy wouldn’t talk and tell them about our plan, they decided to go for whatever would break the _both_ of you. Hurting him to hurt you.”

Did she make it that easy? Did she give them the weapon they needed to break her, sending Bellamy away, trusting him and him only to get the mission done and save their people? Did she paint a target on his back when she oh so desperately tried to prove she was strong enough to let him go? It _wasn’t_ strength that pushed her to do so, and Clarke knows it now; how did the people in Mount Weather know that before she did? How could they know what she refused to let herself see? _Everything_ is her fault, and with that realization the dam finally breaks.

She doesn’t cry. Clarke thinks that she would have, weeks ago, before Finn, before Tondc, but the tears don’t come. Inside her heart is breaking and a sense of terror is overwhelming her, drowning her, _killing_ her, and she feels cold, the warmth of Octavia’s hand fading slowly in spite of her firm grip, and Clarke’s never felt so alone.

_But she doesn’t cry_. Crying takes energy she should focus on Bellamy. “So should I expect him to try to kill me now?” she asks, and her voice is rough and hoarse and raw, almost clinical. Isn’t it what Jackson and her mother are aiming at, that Bellamy is programmed to eliminate the threat she represents?

Jackson shakes his head lightly. “We don’t think that Bellamy is a threat _to_ you,” he starts hesitantly, “because he’s just too terrified _of_ you. And this is why we think that what they did to him is some type of fear conditioning more than actual brainwashing.” Looking at the rest of the delinquents, he elaborates, “Like I was trying to explain earlier, they made Clarke look scary to him. Fear is one of the strongest, most primitive emotions we can feel, and we choose between fight and flight based on it. It’s a survival thing, and we’re hardwired to remember it the most, which is why it’s so hard to fight our fears.”

“Our mother used to say fear was a demon,” Octavia breathes out in a whisper, and it dawns on Clarke that this is the first time she’s spoken since this meeting of sorts started. She’d been so engrossed in her own despair she’d almost forgotten that this has to be a thousand times _worse_ for Octavia, to see her brother, the last member of her family, _damaged_ like this. “How did they do this to Bell?” she asks, echoing Jasper and Miller’s earlier inquiry that’d gone partially unanswered.

Clarke catches the nervous glance Jackson throws in her mother’s direction, and she knows it’s partly for her sake but she can’t bear it any longer. She saw the room, the shackles, the bruises, the desperate look in Bellamy’s hollow eyes only the most violent, intimate, terrifying kind of treatment could put there – how are they supposed to help him recover if they can’t even put words on the atrocities he went through? “The screens in the room…they were showing him videos of _me_ while torturing him, is that it?” Clarke asks with a frown. “They were filming me in that quarantine room, they have cameras everywhere. Is that how they made him fear me? By associating the pain with me?”

Jackson gives her a weak nod. “That’s our theory. Bellamy was beaten repeatedly and probably drugged to stimulate the brain regions fear originates from, though we don’t have anything to test his blood to verify that, and we think he was subjected to…well, for lack of a better word, _you_. Your voice, your face, every lie they must have fed him about you, until everything in his mind was about you and he couldn’t tell the difference between the real person who was hurting him and you – as if you were the one hurting him.”

The silence that follows Jackson’s words is deafening.

They’re all probably imagining the same things, Clarke reckons; Bellamy, tied up in a room, beaten, told that Clarke didn’t care about him, drugged, forced to listen to her voice saying God knows what, yelling, screaming, begging for help, beaten again. And again. How long had it taken before he gave up the fight? What had they done to him to break him? Was it the echo of cruel, soul-piercing words about how he was expendable to her; the jab of a needle pulsing venom in his veins? Had Bellamy begged for her to help or to stop the pain?

How long until the thought of her stopped giving him strength or hope like the thought of him does her?

It’s Raven’s voice that pulls her out of her own dark thoughts. “They had him for a week, and we only got him back for four days. He just needs time to recover and then he’ll remember Clarke, right?” she says, an eyebrow raised in confusion, but also a hint of defiance. If there’s one thing Clarke knows about Raven, it’s that she hates not understanding – that brain and those hands were made to _fix_ and not break like hers seem to keep doing. “I mean, right now he’s in a lot of pain and he’s confused, but once he feels better, it’s not like he’s forgotten about her. He _knows_ Clarke. He knows she’d never hurt him. Just give him a few days and he’ll be asking for her.” She pauses, and the look she gives Clarke is filled with everything that Raven is: fire that doesn’t burn but keeps warm, fierceness that’s steady instead of intimidating, and softness around sharp edges. “He’ll probably tell you worrying doesn’t look good on you.”

Harper smiles; Miller nods his head, the corner of his lips twitching up in a smirk. “Sounds like something Bell would say,” Octavia agrees as she loosens her grip around Clarke’s hand, a gentle presence more than a desperate hold now.

Clarke tries to smile back, God, she _does_ ; but the frown between her mother’s brows and the pained look on Jackson’s face tell her they don’t share her friends’ optimism, and honestly, she doesn’t either. The old Clarke probably would have let them hold onto hope and believe that Bellamy’s wounds could be healed with time, thinking that it was kinder to let them than to crush their hope immediately, but Clarke doesn’t believe in wishing upon a star anymore, or hoping that good things will happen to good people.

Just look at what Bellamy got for doing the right thing.

But she doesn’t say a thing. Not until Octavia announces that she’s going back to Bellamy’s bedside and the others start leaving, too, Monty smiling encouragingly at her and Jasper giving her an awkward, half-hug; Raven’s lips tilt up in a small smile, and it’s another step to _their_ recovery, at least.

Then she turns to her mother. “Tell me what you really think.”

 

* * *

 

**Day 30**

“So you’re just gonna sit there and say nothing?”

Raven lifts her eyes from the sheet of paper she’s been scribbling on, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Do you _want_ me to say something?” she asks, sarcasm dripping in her tone. “’Cause from what I’ve heard, you’re not much of a talker lately, so I figured I could just save my breath.”

Bellamy scoffs. There’s the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest, abandoning the map he was studying to turn and fully face her. “Okay, you got my attention now,” he says, half-annoyed, half-amused. “What do you want, Raven?”

She adds another touch to her little doodle, fixing the obvious problem in Wick’s draft. “Honestly? I just couldn’t concentrate because Wick _never stops talking_ ,” Raven replies, and _no_ , she’s not exaggerating, not even a little. “Figured here would be a good place to work without being bothered, since _you_ don’t talk.”

The look he gives her tells her Bellamy’s not into playing along her little charade. “If you’re here to talk about –“

“Did you not hear what I said?” Raven interrupts him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I said I wanted some peace and quiet. I’m not here to talk about our feelings or braid each other’s hair.”

Bellamy tilts his head to the side and huffs a little sigh. “Whatever,” he says with a shake of his head before turning his gaze back to his map. “The Chancellor wants me to help mapping out camp, organizing scout patrols and guard, things like that,” he goes on, the fingers of one hand clenching around the edge of the makeshift table. “She gave me two days.”

Raven’s not sure if he’s expecting a reply or not, but she gives him one anyway. “And that’s…not enough?” she inquires hesitantly.

Bellamy scoffs again, the muscle in his jaw tensing. “I’m _already_ done,” he explains like it’s so obvious. “She could have asked anyone, and they’d have done it just as quickly, too.” He pauses and lets out a sigh again as he lifts a hand to rub at his face. “I never thought I’d see Chancellor Abigail Griffin _coddle_ me. It makes me feel even more of a baby than when O stops by to drop food and doesn’t leave until I’ve finished it.”

Raven snorts. “Which is ridiculous because Bellamy Blake would _never_ turn down food.”

He glares at her and it’s just for show, she knows it. She understands his frustration with everything and everyone, but mostly with himself; Raven knows what it’s like to be looked at like a fragile little thing, and she knows just how hard it is to stay calm and not snap at people for thinking that one obstacle on the road, however big or small, could really stop her – she and Bellamy are very similar on that front.

“Why don’t you go show Abby, then?” she then asks.

“Because I can’t deal with the look on her face, like she’s both impressed and proud,” Bellamy shrugs. “It’s kind of insulting, really, and a little condescending. I’m not a _kid_ , I don’t need external validation to feel better.”

His tone is harsh but she can spot the hurt in his eyes; hurt at being treated like a weakling and less of what he used to be – their leader, criminal turned respected member whose orders were followed by the guard and whose opinion was taken into account, no matter how reluctant Abby or Kane or Jaha initially were. “Then _what_ do you need?” Raven presses.

Bellamy starts to open his mouth but immediately closes it, pressing his lips firmly together. She _knows_ what he needs; they all do. It’d be funny, how both Bellamy and Clarke keep denying themselves the one thing they want and need, if it wasn’t so goddamn _tragic_. “I don’t know,” he finally says after a moment. “Just – _not this_. Not staying put. I want to do something useful.”

Raven knows _exactly_ how that feels. Bellamy hasn’t been cleared for any physical activity yet because of his shoulder – Abby and Jackson think he dislocated it himself trying to escape his bounds and no one dared to ask, and it hasn’t healed properly – and they’ve all seen his mood shift from bad to _worse_ when Abby told him he couldn’t join the building teams. Bellamy’s restless; restless hands and restless mind, nervous energy finding no release and bottling up inside him, ready to explode, and here is Abby, depriving him of any way to put it to use.

Honestly, Raven’s impressed by how calm and patient Bellamy is – not that she’d tell him, she doesn’t want to sound condescending – because she feels like _she’d_ have snapped much sooner. “Hey, you might be able to help me,” she says, her eyes suddenly flicking from her sketch to Bellamy.

Bellamy cocks a skeptical eyebrow at her. “You made a bomb out of a _tin can_. I’m not sure how _I_ could be of any help to you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not with that attitude, that’s for sure,” Raven scoffs, before patting the spot beside her. “Wick and I are trying to make more guns, but we keep clashing about every single aspect. He says my designs are flawed but the problem is, his are, _too_. You might see something I don’t,” she suggests, “after all, you’re a guard. You know your way around guns.”

“I was just a cadet,” Bellamy corrects her, self-depreciation and the faintest hint of anger in his voice, but still he comes to sit beside her and takes a look.

Raven watches the tension slowly fade in spite of the small frown on his face from concentration as Bellamy looks at the draft and start asking her questions about just everything, from the metal they intend to use to how they’re going to calibrate its weight to make it easily usable for both men and women. He challenges notions she thought she knew, and after an hour she realizes she’s made more progress with Bellamy than with Wick in a couple of days because of their constant bickering.

Bellamy surprises her when his hand finds her knee, gently squeezing there. “Thank you for this,” he says, and Raven’s not sure she’s ever heard him thank anyone before.

“No problem,” Raven replies, bumping her shoulder lightly with his. “You were there when I needed it.”

The smile he gives her is small, just barely there, but _genuine_.

 

* * *

 

**Day 33**

It’s not easy.

It’s possibly the _hardest_ thing she’s ever had to do.

Staying away from Bellamy, giving him space, when they’ve been apart for so long is slowly killing her, but Clarke does it. Every day she forces herself to get up and help in any capacity she can; some days she spends in med bay from dawn to dusk, tending to sore, abused bodies from hours working on building camp or hunting; other days she shadows her mother and Kane at meetings with the Grounders, letting them take their leader status back. It doesn’t matter to her anymore who’s in charge now; sometimes Clarke wishes she never had to step up to lead her people.

Their camp is not big enough to efficiently prevent any encounter with Bellamy, though, and when they do cross path, it’s awkward and painful and sad and she mumbles an apology and takes off before she does something stupid like cry.

It’s exhausting, but she does it every day.

(It’s a goddamn tragedy, their friends think, that Clarke never sees the _longing_ look in Bellamy’s eyes every time she runs away.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 12**

Octavia doesn’t so much ask but _demand_ the truth, and that’s when the tears start flooding and Clarke _can’t_ stop them.

She’s a mess of strangled sobs and puffy eyes but Octavia pulls her into her arms, familiar Blake warmth and strength and steadiness surrounding Clarke as she combs her hand softly in her hair, the other tracing soothing patterns on her back. “God, you should have told us, Clarke,” Octavia whispers, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her own eyes. “You don’t _have_ to do this alone. We’re here for you, too.”

Clarke doesn’t know why she didn’t; maybe she didn’t feel like she deserved to be comforted and hugged and reassured when Bellamy’s the one battling against his own mind, when she’s the one _haunting_ him, when every single memory he has of her is now stained with fear and anguish.

Jackson had said it was a possibility that Bellamy would still be fearful and distressed around her, even after getting time to rest and heal. He’d explained that it might make him question everything, and Clarke had tried to imagine what it’d be like to have so many memories of someone and wonder if they were real or not, or how she even felt about them. How would he remember the day he’d saved her life; the days when he used to think she was just a snob, haughty little princess?

The day she’d run to him, holding onto him for dear life?

The day she’d sent him away?

The answer had come this morning when he startled awake drenched in cold sweat, begging for help, and Miller who was at his bedside had had to calm him down and reassure him that there were no flames burning him. He’d relived the night she’d closed the dropship door on him in his nightmare and Miller had been stunned when Bellamy had brought his knees close to his chest and started rocking softly, asking how Clarke could have done _that_.

Leave him out to _die_.

Bellamy hadn’t calmed down, even when Miller had ended up going looking for Octavia for support; he’d grabbed his sister’s arm as if he was seeing her for the first time since that bloody night, his hands then frantically reaching for her face for any trace of injury, and he’d started mumbling incoherently until Octavia had forced him to drink Nyko’s tea and he’d gone back to sleep, his grip still painfully firm around her wrist.

It’d been the first time he’d started panicking without anyone mentioning Clarke.

Octavia pulls away, but her hands reach up to cradle Clarke’s face in a tender gesture she’s seen her share with her brother and Lincoln only, and Clarke feels her heart swell in her chest. “Jackson explained everything,” she says softly, “and before you _even_ start talking, I need you to listen to me. This is _not_ your fault and no one blames you, and you _have_ to know that Bellamy wouldn’t either.”

Clarke shakes her head, tears still pooling in her eyes. “You don’t know that,” she says, her voice trembling. “They hurt him to get to me. They did this because of me. He’s losing his mind because of me,” she rambles, her throat closing around the words. “ _I_ did this to him,” she finishes in a low whisper.

“No, you didn’t!” Octavia says firmly, her gaze still soft but fierce and unwavering – the very definition of the Blakes. “They may have targeted you because you’re our leader, but they could have done the same with any of us. Would you be blaming me if they’d used my voice or his memories of me to hurt him? Would you?” she all but challenges Clarke.

“Of course not,” Clarke replies with a certainty she hasn’t felt in a long time.

The corner of Octavia’s lips twitch up in a small, encouraging smile. “Then don’t you dare try and take the blame for something these bastards did. _They_ did this to him, not you, and trust me when I’m telling you I _know_ my brother – he might be confused and scared as hell right now, but deep down, he would do _anything_ for you and I don’t care how long it takes, but we’ll get him to remember because caring about you is part of who he _is_. You hear me?” she asks a little louder, and Clarke forces herself to nod her head in agreement. “You’re _not_ alone. We’re all gonna help.”

When the tears start flowing again, Octavia just hugs her tighter, whispering soothing nonsense in her ear and _God_ , how Clarke’s missed being held and touched and promised everything would be okay.

Nothing ever is, but maybe, just maybe this time it’ll be _true_.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 25**

It’s not the first time she finds herself standing in front of his tent in the middle of the night.

It’s not the first time Jackson’s words echo in her ears, and fear’s telling her to flee instead of fight. She wants to fight, though, wants to talk to Bellamy and sort this through, tell him how sorry she is, how much she cares about him and wrap her arms around him and never let go; but she just stands there, shaking from the cold and fear, five, ten, thirty minutes, Clarke doesn’t know or care.

She always ends up slipping back in the tent she shares with Octavia and then under the fur blanket, and when Octavia’s hand reaches out she twines her fingers with hers without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 36**

He misses her, and he’s trying to forget how scared he is, to bury the fear so deep down it can’t drown him, but it just never works. She’s his Penelope and he’s been sailing home to her for so long he’s lost at sea, shipwrecked and left for dead and maybe she’ll be the death of him but _still_ , he presses on and hates himself whenever he flinches when Clarke walks by or he catches a glimpse of her hair.

He remembers hating her.

He remembers lying to himself.

He remembers that caring about her comes as naturally as breathing.

He remembers thinking he’d lost her, and now he’s losing her again and he wants to run to her but that truth is a burden he can’t carry, not on his own.

(He can’t tell Octavia or Miller or Jasper or anyone, though. He can’t tell them he loves her but that he’s afraid to.

She looks like a wreck, too, anyway. What good could it do?)

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 16**

Miller is the one suggesting it, and if there’s one person Bellamy still trusts after Octavia, it’s him, so he does as his friend says with self-imposed discipline.

He starts with simple facts: his name is Bellamy Blake, his sister is the person he loves and cares about the most in the world, most of his friends are safe and Mount Weather fell but not before he was captured and tortured. He repeats them in his head until he’s sure he knows they’re true, until he feels like they’re a part of him and not just things he’s been told, scars and stories that map him and no one else. _Everything else_ , every single thing he _thinks_ he knows, he asks the others, whoever it is at his bedside watching him on the schedule Octavia has worked out.

Everything else means _Clarke_ – of course it does.

When he mentions what she did to Finn, Raven’s eyes pool with tears but he knows she’s the only one who will really tell him the truth and won’t sugarcoat it to make Clarke look better. “It had to be done,” Raven says simply, and he remembers those words, remembers telling Clarke and hearing her say them back, and they echo in his head for a long time, even as Raven leaves and Jasper takes her seat.

Murphy tells him about how he _still_ doesn’t understand why he saved the princess’ life when he was ready to cut off her hand if necessary. “Guess it’s always been there, huh?” he chuckles darkly, and Bellamy doesn’t know _what’s_ supposedly always been there, or maybe he doesn’t want to know or name it. He feels agitated and restless after Murphy leaves and Octavia is so pissed she sends everybody away and spends the rest of the day with him, cuddled against his side and Bellamy finally feels at peace, his little sister safe in his arms.

Octavia – she’s _everything_ to him. She’s his family and the star that points him home, his guiding light, the song in his soul. Nothing else matters as long as she’s here.

( _Liar_.)

“You love _her_ , and I know you know it,” Octavia whispers in the vicinity of his chest, and he doesn’t deny it because he _does_.

But love _hurts_ ; that’s what he knows.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 21**

There are bad days, when it seems like all the progress Bellamy’s made falls apart. He’s short-tempered, angry, and scared of what he’s become though he refuses to admit it.

He thinks of Clarke and sees her fair skin and blonde waves and brilliant blue eyes in his head and she’s an _angel_ – strong, compassionate, kind, brave and merciful. But even angels can fall from grace sometimes; even angels can lose their wings, and all of a sudden he sees the scars and the blood and she’s a demon, siren calling his name and saying she’ll ease his pain only to break him on the stones. He tries to recite the facts in his head then – _they’re friends, he cares about her, she cares about him, they’re a team_ – but his blood is pulsing in his temples and his heart is colliding painfully against his ribcage and the next minute he’s leaving the line at the mess hall and running back to his tent, ignoring Octavia’s worried voice asking him what’s going on.

She doesn’t follow him; he’s glad. He sinks to the floor and hugs his knees to his chest and starts reciting again.

_His name is Bellamy Blake._

_Octavia is the one person he’s certain that he loves._

_Cage Wallace is dead. He’s dead and he can’t hurt him anymore._

_Clarke can, though. And she has before._

_She has._

_Or has she?_

_Her skin smells like earth and tree leaves and blood and death and war and he loves her, good God, how he loves her._

He presses his palms over his ears and starts again.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 39**

She thinks about leaving.

Clarke doesn’t tell anyone, but she stares at Bellamy who’s pretending not to feel it – she can see it – as he keeps talking to Jasper, and she thinks of how much better his life would be without her, so she prays for the strength and the grace to let him go. She knows she could never, but she likes to pretend that she could even for just a minute, just to feel like she deserves the admiration and respect her friends have for her.

Bellamy looks up; she doesn’t avert her gaze, not like every other time. He gives her the faintest nod and the ghost of a smile, and if she didn’t know _it_ until then, she knows it _now_.

She loves him.

(It doesn’t matter _how_. She always has.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 60**

He presses a kiss to her forehead as he sits beside her for dinner, and she huddles against his side for warmth, her hand resting absently on his knee the whole time.

Her skin smells like joy and peace and their first snow.

_A new beginning_.

 

* * *

 

 

**_the end_ **

 

 

 


End file.
